


Not On Their Own

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Grantaire/Eponine brotp, M/M, Modern AU, vaguely connected drabbles in the same modern-verse, written and posted in no chronological order whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though they are each rather more in love with other people, Grantaire and Eponine can count on each other, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by strider17 on tumblr, Eponine helps Grantaire propose to Enjolras.

“Getting him a ring is stupid,” Grantaire sighs, reaches for the silver flask that he always used to keep in his pocket, before he remembers that he stopped drinking every minute of the day months ago. He misses it though, especially at times like these, when it feels like he might possibly be the worst, most incompetent boyfriend ever. A swallow of whiskey would calm him down. “Do you want to go get lunch somewhere? Preferably somewhere that serves alcohol?”

“Why? I think it’s nice.” Eponine ignores his question, and she wears the small smile she always does when she’s thinking about Marius, though of course for her to ever get a ring from him he will have to fall out of love with Cosette first, which everyone knows will never happen.

“He’d never want to wear it. Enjolras hates jewelry. Told me once that it’s too bourgeois. It would completely ruin the proposal. But I can’t just go to him empty-handed and be like ‘hey asshole, let’s get married. There’s got to be something in it to sweeten the deal.”

“Well, there is  _you,_ Grantaire. That’s kind of the whole reason he’d want to get married, and not because you propose with a nice gift.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, drums his fingers on the glass jewelry display they’ve been staring at for the past ten minutes. “When did you become such a romantic, anyway?”

Eponine swats him on the shoulder. “If a jackass like you can find someone to love you, I figure there’s someone out there for me, too.” She takes his arm, steers him out of the jewelry store. “How about you propose with an ugly vest? He likes those, doesn’t he? Or a nice flag. Very patriotic, he’ll appreciate that, won’t he?”

“Very funny, Eponine.” He tries to laugh, but there isn’t any heart in it. It rings of his dejection, and Eponine pats his shoulder in an attempt to be comforting.

“ _He loves you_. None of this other stuff matters. I’m sure you could even suggest eloping to Las Vegas and having a honeymoon in a shitty motel room and he wouldn’t care.” Grantaire raises his eyebrows at her, and she shrugs. “Okay, maybe he’d care a little bit, because our Enjolras is a man of class, but I’m telling you, don’t get all hung up on this proposal thing and talk yourself out of it. Because then you’ll really regret it.” Eponine intentionally fails to mention the bet she has going with Combeferre—that she will get Grantaire to propose to Enjolras before Combeferre gets Enjolras to propose to Grantaire, because really they just need to get on with it already after all these years of having hate sex with one another and then falling in love, not to mention how fun their wedding will be when it finally happens.

“You really think he will say yes?” Grantaire asks, his voice grave.

“Duh.”  _As long as he doesn’t propose to you first_ , she adds in her mind, and grins at him. “Want to go get those drinks you were talking about earlier?”

“Oh, thank god.” He seems relieved—he needs a break from all this proposal stuff, and it’s making him sweat unattractively through his t-shirt. He’s not afraid of marriage or commitment to Enjolras until they both die, that all sounds very lovely, to him, but it’s simply trying to propose properly that may begin to cause him actual physical pain.

“Now that we’ve got this silly ring business out of your head, we’ll have to discuss how you’re going to surprise him next, of course,” Eponine says, and she can’t not laugh at the stricken expression on her best friend’s face.


	2. When They Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by the-dark-lords-apprentice on tumblr: when Enjolras and Grantaire meet for the first time. Which I shamelessly used for my Grantaire/Eponine brotp, as well. Oops.

The edge of his vision blurs, and Grantaire takes another shot of tequila, and quickly bites into the wedge of lemon that Eponine hands him. The music is loud, too loud, and Grantaire doesn’t usually go to parties like these—he prefers the quiet corner of a bar to drink his brain away—but there’s some guy here that Eponine likes, and Grantaire loves her too much to let Eponine go to some stranger’s house alone.

“Have you found him yet?” Grantaire has to shout for Eponine to hear him over the music.

Eponine leans in close, so that she can speak directly into his ear. “Yeah. We said hi. But he’s not here with any other girls, so that’s a good sign.”

 “Maybe he’s gay,” Grantaire replies, and grins. He dodges the punch that Eponine directs at his arm, and picks up his red solo cup. “I need a refill. You?”

“No, I’m—” Then Eponine stops for a moment, stares at something behind Grantaire. She nudges him with her elbow. “That guy on the couch is staring at you.” Grantaire begins to turn, but Eponine grabs his arm and snaps, “More casual than that!”

Grantaire nods, and acts as if he’s stretching his neck and shoulder, fakes a yawn, too, to go with it, as he gets a look at the guy who is, apparently, staring right at him. He’s got a head full of blond curls that Grantaire would like to tangle his fingers in, a stupid red vest that Grantaire would like to remove, and yes, Eponine was right, he’s staring at him. When Grantaire catches his eye, a blush rises to his cheeks, and he turns back to whatever conversation his friends are having beside him. 

Grantaire snickers, and turns back to Eponine. “I would definitely go home with _him_  tonight.”

“Are you going to go talk to him? I think he might be one of Marius’s friends—imagine if you two started dating I could see Marius all the time—” Eponine starts to ramble, and Grantaire knows she’s already planning Grantaire’s wedding to random hot couch guy, because it will help further her own ends with that guy she’s so recently become obsessed with.

“Give me another shot,” Grantaire interrupts her. She pours it, hands it to him, and Grantaire slugs it back, not bothering with the salt or lemon this time. But even he winces at the taste of the cheap tequila. “Wish me luck,” he says to her, and starts in the direction of random hot couch guy, trying very hard not to sway or stumble.

The guy had already resumed his staring at Grantaire, and he seems a little flustered as Grantaire approaches him, for catching him out a second time. But Grantaire can only grin foolishly with delight, as he holds out his hand. “I’m Grantaire.”

Now he seems entirely taken aback, but he nods at him, regains his composure, and grasps Grantaire’s hand firmly. “Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeats, to make sure he’s got the pronunciation right. “Your hand is cold.”

Enjolras realizes that neither of them have broken the handshake yet, and reluctantly takes his own hand away. When Enjolras licks his bottom lip, Grantaire feels himself begin to sweat. Suddenly, the party and the press of people is just too hot, too much. Even so, he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon, unless Enjolras likes to move fast and drags him out sometime in the next half hour. He sits on the arm of the couch beside Enjolras, hopes against hope that Enjolras likes to move fast. 

But now there is silence between them, or rather, loud, pulsing music, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. Flirting isn’t exactly his specialty, it isn’t Enjolras’s either, he supposes. He catches himself staring at the little spot of bare chest where Enjolras has unbuttoned the first three button of his shirt, and loosened his tie. He wants to run his tongue along it, and lower and lower, button by button, and throw that stupid vest on his bedroom floor, or fuck it, they wouldn’t make it past the kitchen—

“So, do you go to school here?” Enjolras asks him, and Grantaire turns bright red, afraid he could where his thoughts were headed.

“Yeah! I’m an art major! You?”

“Political science!”

They have to shout to hear one another, and Grantaire has never felt so annoyed. He doesn’t know why all college parties have the same bad, loud music, because it doesn’t seem as if anyone can get laid like this. But then Enjolras leans in close—like Grantaire did earlier, to talk to Eponine, except Enjolras is definitely  _not_ Eponine—and he feels hot breath in his ear, and the close vibrations of Enjolras’s voice hit him low in his stomach. He doesn’t mind the music so much, now.

“Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?”

Across the room, Eponine is not-so-subtlely watching them, and Grantaire winks at her, and says to Enjolras, “I would love to.”


	3. Friend in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on two anonymous on tumblr: the first asked for an argument between E/R, and the second for Enjolras to ask Grantaire to stop drinking, Grantaire to get very drunk in response, and Enjolras to take care of him.

Eponine’s phone rings. On screen, her best friend’s Facebook profile picture appears--Grantaire and Enjolras, the latter kissing the former’s cheek. They’re so adorable, it hurts. She slides her thumb across the “answer” bar at the bottom.

“What do you want, asshole?” she says, though her affection for the asshole in question is evident in the the tone of her voice.

Grantaire is drunk, very, very drunk. “I fucked up.” And Eponine can’t be sure, but it sounds as if a sob is caught in the back of his throat, and as if to confirm her suspicions, Grantaire starts to sniffle. “I fucked up really bad.”

Eponine sits up in bed. It’s two in the morning, she was about to go to sleep, but clearly Grantaire needs her. She switches on the lamp beside her bed, squints at the burst of light.“What did you do?”

“Enjolras and I got into a fight. He left. I don’t know where he went.” Grantaire starts to cry harder--she can practically hear the snot running down his face--and the sound of it nearly breaks Eponine’s heart.

She tries to hush him, making random comforting sounds into the phone, as if Grantaire is a puppy or a child who needs to be soothed. “It’s okay. I’m sure he just went to cool off somewhere. What were you two fighting about?”

“He--he--told me--,” Grantaire hiccups, and Eponine isn’t sure if it’s from the drinking or the crying--probably both. “He told me that he wanted me to start drinking less--but I was--am--kinda drunk, and, ugh, I just got so mad. He’s been so distant lately, so cold, I told him I think he secretly hates me, or at least that he doesn’t love me anymore. He’s just so _busy_ all the time, too busy for drunk old Grantaire, with all his important business--I told him if he wanted me gone so badly, I’d fucking leave, never see his sorry ass again--god, I just wanted him to _act like he cared again_.”

Eponine nods sympathetically, realizes Grantaire isn’t there to see her nodding, and says, “I know what that’s like, feeling like no one cares. You were--are--just drunk, you might be overreacting a bit. But you two will be _fine._ Of course he loves you, even if he’s under a lot of other stress right now.”

Grantaire is mumbling now, and he’s mostly incoherent. 

“Do you want me to come over?”

He stops his rambling, and she listens to him blow his nose. “Yeah. Bring _The Lion King_?”

“Duh. Need any more booze?”

“Trust me, I’ve got us covered there. Thanks, Ep.”

.....

After she crawls out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants--Grantaire’s, that he grew out of in middle school and gave to her--she quickly calls Enjolras, to get a sober perspective on the situation. He doesn’t answer the first or second time, but she ignores his voicemail and redials. By the third time, he answers on the first ring, with a sharp, “What?”

“Listen, I know you and Grantaire had some massive blow-up, but I just want to be able to reassure him that you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere, and you’re coming back tomorrow.”

“I’m at Combeferre’s. And I don’t know.” The edge of anger remains in his voice until he adds, “He told me that I don’t know how to love him anymore, that he was going to leave me.” Now he sounds as sad and vulnerable in his own stoic way as Grantaire had a few minutes ago.

“You should consider stopping by tomorrow, try to talk it out, at least.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“G’night.”

Enjolras hesitates, then, “Hey, Eponine?” 

She sighs, knows what he’s going to say next. “Don’t worry. I’m on my way over there now to take care of him.”

“Oh. Good. Thanks.”

“G’night, Enjolras.” She hangs up before Enjolras can ask her anything else, because as much as she knows Grantaire is a drunken asshole, and it sounds like he caused this mess by being a drunken asshole, Grantaire has also been her best friend since preschool, so she knows whose side she’s on.

.....

Grantaire is curled up on the couch when Eponine arrives, clinging a bottle of brandy to his chest. There’s a second bottle of brandy, empty, on the floor, and that’s fairly impressive even for him. “There’s a bottle of Pinot for you in the fridge,” he says, as his head lolls back against the wall. “Ow.”

Eponine retrieves the bottle and a corkscrew--Grantaire left that in the fridge, too, conveniently enough--and doesn’t bother to grab a glass. She pops open the bottle and takes a swig, before putting _The Lion King_ in the VHS player that Grantaire bought at a garage sale, ages ago, precisely for this purpose. She collapses on the couch beside him, and he hastily wipes his eyes with his sleeve until she takes his arm. “Cry as much as you have to, okay?”

He takes another few swallows of his brandy, and then he does.

She curls into his side and wraps her arms around his waist while he sobs into her shoulder.

.....

Her head hurts in the morning, a little, but it’s nothing a few Advil and a cup of coffee won’t cure. Grantaire had fallen asleep at her side, unable to trudge off to the bed that he only ever shared with Enjolras. But now Grantaire is gone, and there are at least five empty bottles strewn on the floor.

Yes, Grantaire had _a lot_ to drink. If Enjolras was getting on him about his drinking, Eponine cannot exactly blame him, even if she herself has not exactly _discouraged_ Grantaire’s vice, either. She hears him retching in the bathroom, and is at least grateful that he isn’t passed out or dead.

But then the front door opens, and Enjolras is there, not looking in the best shape, himself. His hair is even more unkempt than usual, and it’s dark around his eyes from lack of sleep. He looks like he may have been crying, too, although the slight swelling around his eyes is nothing compared to what Grantaire is bound to have. Enjolras nods at Eponine.

“He’s in the bathroom. You might want to leave him be,” Eponine says. She stands, stretches, and yawns. “Want me to get out of here? Give you two some privacy?”

“That might be for the best,” Enjolras says slowly.

“Call me if I need to come and fix his broken heart?”

Enjolras nods again. Words just feel a little too difficult, right now.

.....

Once Eponine makes her exit, Enjolras slips off his shoes and considers the closed bathroom door. He can hear Grantaire in there, vomiting, or crying, or both. Grantaire has never been graceful when he cries, after all. He raises a hand to knock on the door, stops, and drops his arm. Maybe Grantaire doesn’t want to see him, maybe they both need a some more time and space, but not-sleeping on Combeferre’s futon felt like the loneliest night of Enjolras’s life, and that’s what decides it. He knocks, and carefully pushes open the door.

Grantaire sits against the wall, holding an entire roll of toilet paper to his face as he sobs. There’s a spot of vomit on his ratty old t-shirt, and the whole bathroom smells like a mixture of throw-up and liquor, for obvious reasons.

“Enj.” Grantaire startles, tries to rise and stand before stumbling back against the wall. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” He’s crying harder now, which Enjolras didn’t realize possible. He’s never seen him like this, and it makes him realize again just how much he loves him, and maybe he hasn’t shown him that well, at least recently.

Enjolras crouches in front of him, runs a hand through Grantaire’s dark, curly hair. “It’s okay. I know. It’s okay.” His eyes start to tear up, too, rather against his will. “Let’s get you to bed, all right?”

He helps him to his feet, and when he does, Grantaire throws his arms Enjolras’s neck and holds on tight, always murmuring, “I’m sorry,” into his neck. And even though Grantaire reeks of alcohol and his own vomit, Enjolras would rather have him here, in his arms, than anywhere else in the world.

 


	4. In Which R Probably Murders Marius Off-Screen

Enjolras likes the feeling of Grantaire in his arms, as much as he thinks he dislikes Grantaire himself. But in bed he’s warm, and mercifully silent. He’s usually an early riser, but Grantaire, apparently, is not, so for this morning he is content to lie in bed, eyes closed, and listen to the other man breathe.

He never lets him spend the night. It’s one of the rules they established, early on. But the dusting of snow on the ground the night before has given them both an excuse to truly sleep together, in the literal meaning of those words. They’ve been at the figurative meaning of those words for nearly three months, and Enjolras likes this break in their normal routine.

Daring to _watch_ him sleep, Enjolras has no doubt, would be far too big a breach in protocol, despite the temptation that tugs at his eyelids. He keeps them resolutely closed.

But then Grantaire’s phone makes a loud _DING_ , and that, Enjolras supposes, is reason enough to open his eyes, and watch Grantaire’s mouth open and close in an adorable yawn. His mess of dark curls is full of static and frizz manages to be adorable, too. Reason enough for them both to stay in bed, awhile, Enjolras thinks, and runs his hands down the length of Grantaire’s firm stomach, until he finds exactly what he’s looking for.

Grantaire groans, bucks his hips upwards in the sheets. “Just a sec,” he gasps. He moves onto his side, grabs his phone off of Enjolras’s nightstand. Squints against the glare of intrusive daylight as he reads the screen.

“Fuck.”

“Yes?” Enjolras begins to crawl over Grantaire. He’d like him pinned beneath him, this morning, and he nuzzles at his neck.

“No.” Grantaire rolls out from underneath him, out of bed and onto his feet. “Sorry. _Fuck._ ” He pulls on his boxers in green plaid and then his jeans, while Enjolras tries to puzzle out what is going on. A Grantaire who turns down his advances is not Grantaire at all.

“Bad news?”

He shrugs into his shirt, tries to flatten his hair with the palms of his hands. “Yeah. Where are my socks?”

Enjolras has an urge to toss Grantaire’s phone out of the window and into the snow. “No idea. What’s going on?” He stretches out in bed now that there’s room, slides the sheets down low near his feet, trying to make himself appealing as he pouts. The air in his room is cold, raises goosebumps on his skin, but it’s worth it if he can seduce Grantaire back into his bed.

“Ep went home with Marius last night,” Grantaire says, darting from corner to corner of the bedroom in search of his socks.

“Yeah? I saw you high-five her before they left.”

“Yeah, well he drove her home this morning.”

“That’s gentlemanly of him. I never drive you home.”

But Grantaire doesn’t laugh--he snorts in derision. “That fucking asshole. Nice and all, to drive her home, as he gave her the ‘let’s just be friends’ talk. I’m going to fucking murder him. Fuck socks,” he says. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Places to go, people to strangle. _Fuck_. I need a drink.” He sits back down on the bed, head in his hands. “I’m so sorry about this, Enjolras.”

They aren’t good at talking, unless they’re fighting. Enjolras sits up, rests his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder and pats him on the back. “Do you want me to drive you to Eponine’s?”

Grantaire turns his head, kisses Enjolras on the ear and pulls gently on his hair. It’s one of the softer gestures they’ve exchanged. “As long you don’t give me the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech on the way there.”


	5. Grantaire and the People He Loves (or will love someday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anon on tumblr, who wanted to see Enjolras drunk and Grantaire taking care of him. They wanted modern AU, so I figured it would work well in this universe.

Grantaire is far, far too sober for this shit. Another annoying party, and he’s sober enough for the voices and music to hurt his ears and wish he were anywhere but here. But it’s Eponine’s birthday, and she insisted that he DD with her car at the end of the night, so they wouldn’t have to walk home in the rain. Grantaire is terrible at refusing Eponine anything, especially when it’s her birthday. He did try to convince her to let him take her out to a bar instead, or even the two of them drink at his place and watch _The Lion King_ , but Eponine had killed all of his alternatives with a giggle. 

“But Marius will be at the party,” she’d said, and that was that.

It gave Grantaire some hope that he’d run into Enjolras there, too. Since the last party Eponine had dragged him to had ended up with him giving on his knees in the bathroom with the pretty blond boy, Grantaire would not object to encountering him again. Even if, throughout the entirety of the blowjob, Enjolras leaned against the wall with his hands caught in Grantaire’s hair and talked about how he _never ever does things like this_ , amidst his attractive moaning. 

For now, Grantaire lingers awkwardly at Eponine’s side while she talks to Marius. Marius seems alright, has that ‘nice guy’ attitude going for him with sparkling eyes and an easy smile, although entirely too many freckles for Grantaire’s taste. But Eponine likes him, and that’s what matters.

When Marius steps away for a moment to refill his beer, Eponine turns to Grantaire and hisses, “Go away.”

“What?”

“Go away!”

“Why? I’m your DD.”

“Well, don’t leave.” Eponine purses her lips. “Just entertain yourself somewhere that isn’t right next to me. You’re going to scare him off.”

“Me?” Grantaire isn’t sure if he ought to feel offended or pleased with himself. “Why?”

Eponine sighs. “You’re _hovering_. Acting like you’re going to snap his head off if he even thinks about touching me. But you know what, Grantaire, _I would very much like him to touch me!_ ”

He laughs, and she glares. “I have nothing against Marius touching you! He can touch away! I must just be a little cranky, since not-drinking tends to do that to me. I’ll stop being a cockblock, I promise.”

“Good. Come check in with me in an hour or so, and we’ll see where we’re at.” She seems marginally less frustrated, and Grantaire is grateful for that.

“Alright.” He leans in, gives her a brief kiss on the cheek. “Be safe?”

She snorts. “I’ll be fine. And you aren’t allowed to drink, remember!”

“I won’t,” he says, and pouts. Under any other circumstances he would disobey the order immediately, but it _is_ Eponine, and it _is_ her birthday. He’s even willing to drive drunk when there’s a vehicle available and he feels lazy and worthless enough to do so. But never _ever_ with her in the car. She’s his little bit of sentimentality, he supposes, whether he likes it that way or not.

Marius is on his way back, pushing through the sweating bodies that have made the hallway into a makeshift dance floor.

Another kiss for Eponine from Grantaire, on her forehead, because he can’t help himself. “Good luck,” he whispers in her ear, winks, and strides away.

He maneuvers through the house, avoiding the keg in the kitchen at all costs. But he keeps moving so that he looks like he might belong, in the slightest, and maybe he’s only looking for his friends. It’s preferable to standing in a corner, alone, and basically broadcasting what a horrible time he’s having. Any day besides Eponine’s birthday, he’d be on his fifth keg stand by now. He hadn’t had a chance to do even one at the last party, being otherwise occupied with his new acquaintance in the bathroom.

Meandering back into the living room, he sneaks a look at Eponine and Marius. They’re talking animatedly, and steadily downing their third-or-fourth drinks. But they aren’t even touching yet, much to Grantaire’s--and probably Eponine’s--chagrin. It’s evident Marius takes his nice guy persona far too seriously, but poor Eponine likes him enough to act the part of a proper lady for him; Grantaire has told her over and over just how foolish that is, but she doesn’t listen. At the sight of the pair, accomplishing next to nothing, he simply shakes his head.

“GRANTAIRE!”

“The fuck?” Grantaire mumbles, cranes his neck to peer down the hallway where the yell came from.

A very blond, very drunk, and somewhat-familiar face shoves through the group of grinding couples, hurtles right at him. Another guy in glasses trails after him, attempts to grab him by his arm or his collar, and fails.

Enjolras stops in front of Grantaire and grins broadly at him, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. When they’d first met, Grantaire was certain Enjolras had hardly been drinking at all. Tonight, that was obviously not the case. “Helloooo,” he says, and begins to sway. Standing still seems to be a challenge for him, in his state of inebriation.

Grantaire tries to fight back a laugh. The one good thing about sobriety, he decides, is all of the drunk people are hysterically funny.

The man behind Enjolras tries to tug him away, and apologizes to Grantaire. “I’m really sorry about my friend. He practically never drinks, but there was this bet with Courfeyrac, and--”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Grantaire interrupts. “Enjolras and I met once before. He wasn’t _quite_ in this sort of state though.” He can’t help but chuckle, now, as Enjolras sidles closer to him and begins to run his hand up and down Grantaire’s arm. “I don’t think he was this affectionate, either.”

“Yes, we’re learning that, too.” Enjolras’s friend rolls his eyes. “I’m Combeferre, by the way.”

“I’m Grantaire.”

They shake hands, and Combeferre starts to blush. 

“What?”

“You’re the one that Enjolras would not shut up about a few drinks ago, back when he still semi-coherent. It was slightly, um, awkward.” Combeferre glances at his friend.

Enjolras is unfazed, and if anything, his smile grows wider. “Just telling them about _the best blow job of my life_ ,” he says, loud in Grantaire’s ear, his tone grave in order to convey just how much he means it.

Now Grantaire’s the one turning pink. He does prefer this Enjolras, though, to the one of two weeks ago, who had escaped the bathroom with a muttered ‘thanks,’ and probably resolved never to see Grantaire again.

“He’s not usually like this, at all,” Combeferre insists.

“I figured.” Then, before he can stop himself, “I can look after him for you, if you want. I’ve already committed myself to driving someone else home, so what’s another drunk for me to babysit?”

Combeferre hesitates. “I don’t think--”

“Yes!” Enjolras shouts. “Go have fun, Combeferre! Grantaire and I will have some fun of our own.” He leans his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, but the look he gives him is more hilarious than lascivious. Grantaire would give just about anything right now for a drink or ten, to get on Enjolras’s level of intoxication. He doesn’t feel he can properly appreciate just how much Enjolras seems to want him when he’s this sober, without being aware of just how ridiculous he is. It’s a bit of a mood killer, unfortunately.

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m not a serial killer or anything. Although I suppose that’s just what a serial killer would say, isn’t it? Oh, and I won’t take advantage of him, either. I promise.” And he means it.

“You’ll take full advantage of me,” Enjolras murmurs in Grantaire’s ear, and grabs his ass through his jeans. Grantaire is sure that his face is entirely scarlet by now.

Combeferre looks less than happy with the situation, but he agrees. Not that Enjolras is really giving him any other choice, giving him puppy dog eyes from Grantaire’s shoulder. He sighs. “Call me if he gives you any trouble. My number is in his phone.”

“Will do.” Grantaire nods.

“Bye bye!” Enjolras waves cheerfully at Combeferre’s back. When he’s out of earshot, Enjolras clings to Grantaire’s hand. “Can we go to the bathroom?”

“Enjolras, we’re not going to--”

“I need to vomit.”

“Bathroom it is!”

He helps Enjolras stumble up the stairs, and joins him in the bathroom, listens to him heave up the contents of his stomach. It’s quiet there, away from the party that rumbles underneath them. Grantaire stares up at the cold fluorescent lights. It’s marginally less boring, up here, and at least he feels he’s needed. When he’s finished, Enjolras rests his head on the linoleum floor, takes a few deep breaths and closes his eyes. There are a few tears on his cheeks. Grantaire crouches at his side and rubs his back, just like Eponine usually does for him when he needs it.

“You okay?”

“Part of the bet was that I couldn’t vomit,” Enjolras answers, his voice hoarse. “Don’t tell Combeferre or Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire is sure he’s never met Courfeyrac, anyway. “I won’t.” He asks again, “Are you okay?”

Enjolras groans.

“I can go find--”

“No. They’ll know what I was doing.” Enjolras struggles to sit up, bleary-eyed, and Grantaire offers a hand to pull him to his feet. “I just want to go to bed.” He leans against Grantaire, closes his eyes again.

“Enjolras, I already promised not to take advantage of you.”

“No. Sleep.” His breath is hot against Grantaire’s neck, his hands damp as he weaves their fingers together.

Grantaire wonders how in the hell it’s come to this--the last thing he expected was for his second encounter with the random hot couch boy from two weeks ago to end with him completely sober, taking care of a wasted Enjolras. It’s odd, and it’s stupid, but for some reason he doesn’t seem to mind.

.....

Enjolras is half-asleep by the time Grantaire walks him out to Eponine’s car, an arm around him for guidance around any obstacles he might run into in the dark. It’s still pouring rain, and it takes two minutes for Grantaire to find the car keys and still keep Enjolras upright. They’re both dripping water all over the car’s interior as Grantaire arranges Enjolras comfortably in the backseat. He even grabs a ratty wool blanket from the trunk and tucks it around his shoulders.

“Wait here for a minute.”

Enjolras’s head is already resting against the far window, as he begins to snore.

.....

Marius is long gone god-knows-where, in the hour since Grantaire left him and Eponine to their own devices, and Grantaire finally finds Eponine in the hallway to the kitchen. She’s shoved against the wall, and Montparnasse’s hands are down the front of her jeans.

Grantaire’s never minded that Eponine has a healthy sex life, he’s never been overprotective of her in that sense. But he doesn’t like Montparnasse or the way he used to treat her when they dated six months ago--Grantaire broke the bastard’s nose and nearly a few of his ribs, the first time Eponine came to Grantaire’s apartment with finger-shaped bruises on her wrists. 

“Ep!” he yells, when he’s wedged himself in beside her. “Let’s go!”

Montparnasse stops what he’s doing, looks as if he’s about to tell him to fuck off, until he sees it’s Grantaire. He slinks away to avoid any broken bones, and Eponine starts to collapse against the wall. She’s half-unconscious, and Grantaire seriously considers going after Montparnasse and murdering him, for good measure. Instead, he cradles Eponine’s face in his hands, makes sure she’s all right. Her eyes are bright and unfocused and red, but at least she isn’t crying.

“Come on, Ep.”

“Go away,” she whines in response, but slings her arms around his neck.

.....

On the drive back to Eponine’s place, Grantaire catches himself glancing in the rearview mirror for the hundredth time, at Enjolras and Eponine curled up under their now shared blanket in the backseat. Grantaire even catches himself with a small smile, when Enjolras’s head lolls onto Eponine’s shoulder, and Eponine shrugs it off in her sleep.

Once he’s finally Eponine tucked into bed and Enjolras settled on the sofa, Grantaire’s going to need a fucking drink.

 

 


	6. Discontent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by obiwanakin on tumblr, who wished to see Grantaire and Enjolras fight, and Grantaire to storm out and get injured.

_I love him. I love him. I love him_. 

It’s Enjolras’s mantra at the worst of times, like these. 

They’re all gathered at the house that Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta all share, since it’s the largest. She sprawls in Bossuet’s lap with her head on Joly’s shoulder, and Enjolras watches them and envies them their happiness, even with Joly’s hypochondria, Musichetta’s awful cooking, and Bossuet’s inability to enter a room without breaking at least two of the objects within. The floor lamp beside the trio, with its cracked lampshade and almost-broken bulb, testifies to the latter. Nearly every time the light flickers, Musichetta smiles fondly and pats Bossuet on the chest. On occasion, one of them will fake a sneeze or a cough just to laugh at Joly. And after a few minutes, Joly always laughs along with them, a tinge of pink in his cheeks.

Meanwhile, the whole group munches stoically on the peanut-butter cookies that Musichetta made, which are somehow even worse than the lemon meringue pie she made for all of them last week. Joly gets out of the torture by claiming he’s probably allergic to nuts.

Enjolras can’t even find contentment with one person, let alone two, and he wonders how they manage it.

While Grantaire rambles on from his place on the floor, in the corner, raises a bottle of whiskey to his lips, and takes another swallow.

Everyone else is talking amongst themselves, discussing the on-campus rally they’re holding--they’re calling for the firing of an obnoxious business professor who publicly shamed one of her students for being a lesbian, and the administration has tried to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Grantaire tries to speak over them, about how useless their cause is, how no one will care, how they’re all just going to get themselves arrested and absolutely nothing accomplished, and if Enjolras wasn’t sitting all the way across the room, he’d probably slap him.

_But I love him. I’m supposed to love him._

Enjolras grits his teeth, tries to stop himself--Grantaire’s just trying to get him riled up--

He rises to his feet. “Leave, then! Get out, if you have no use for our cause!” His voice carries over the clamor of his friends, and they fall into an abrupt silence. He fixes his gaze on Grantaire, his hands balled into fists.

For a moment, Grantaire appears stricken, though he quickly smooths over the expression with a crooked smile. “Enjolras, I--”

“We’ve no need for your apologies and your cynicism here.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “And least of all your drunkenness.” And that’s the part he means the most--it’s begun to hurt him, watching his boyfriend drink so much night after night. The first few months of their relationship--their romantic one, not just their sexual one--Grantaire had scaled back his drinking, claimed he didn’t need to drown his thoughts so much, not when they were so full of Enjolras. When Grantaire told him that, Enjolras had smiled and kissed him on the corner of his mouth and said ‘ _I like you, too_.’

Now Enjolras feels nothing but cold, and a little empty, as he watches Grantaire stagger upright, bracing himself on the wall for support. Grantaire approaches him, bottle in hand, and Enjolras flinches. Another flash of hurt across Grantaire’s face, and this one lingers.

“Relax. I’m just getting my jacket.” It’s slung across the back of Enjolras’s chair from when they first came in together. He shrugs it on.

Musichetta glares daggers at Enjolras, while he pretends not to notice. “Grantaire, this is my house. Enjolras can’t--”

But Grantaire is already halfway out the door. He doesn’t even slam it behind him.

No one is sure how to react.

“We have important plans to make. He doesn’t need to be here distracting us,” Enjolras says, by way of explanation. He takes his seat, though an unpleasant feeling he can’t quite identify begins to creep its way up his spine.

Bahorel is the first of Enjolras’s friends to finally speak. “He wasn’t bothering any of us. Grantaire’s Grantaire. And I might even be drunker than he is, before the night is over.” He belches and grabs another beer from the box beside him.

Courfeyrac, curled up in an armchair with his arms around Jehan, nods. Jehan nods too, and the three wilting dandelions left in his hair bob along. “We like him almost as much as we figured you did,” he says to Enjolras. “We’ll miss him if you guys break up.”

Enjolras snorts. “We aren’t going to break up,” he says, as if it’s completely ridiculous to even think possible.

But Musichetta just stares at Enjolras like he’s the stupidest man she’s ever laid eyes on. “You have no intention of breaking up with him, but you’re just going to treat him like that? He won’t put up with your cruelty, not if he has any self-respect.”

There’s another silence, as they consider that. No one associates Grantaire with much self-respect, that’s for certain. The thought tugs at a little corner of Enjolras’s frozen heart.

“I just wish he wouldn’t drink so much,” he mutters.

Combeferre leans over, puts his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. “But maybe it wasn’t the best idea to make him walk home when he’s that drunk?” he suggests, and bless Combeferre, he manages not to sound critical.

Enjolras sighs, takes out his phone. He tries not to wince at its background--a photo of Grantaire with his tongue out looking ridiculous and adorable all at once, that Grantaire himself took and made his phone background when Enjolras left it on his nightstand one night. He selects Grantaire from the very top of his contacts list, and puts the phone to his ear.

It rings and rings and rings, until he gets an automated female voice telling him that the voicemail box has yet to be set up.

His friends are watching him.

He presses redial, to the same result.

“I’ll try,” Combeferre says.

The _in case he is ignoring you_ is left unsaid.

“No answer, for me, either.”

“He’s probably at Eponine’s by now,” Enjolras says, only partially to reassure himself, and types out a quick text.

_Tell Grantaire I’m sorry._

His friends resume their conversations, though more quietly, and much more somberly. Every few seconds someone else’s eyes will flit to the door, waiting for Grantaire to saunter back in with a fresh bottle and a smirk. But he doesn’t, and Enjolras gets a text from Eponine.

_He’s not here. He’s at your little occupy campus meeting or whatev. Can’t even keep track of your own bf?_

Enjolras frown deepens, and he can’t focus on whatever Feuilly is saying about flyers or pamphlets or emails to get more students involved.

_He’s on his way to your place._

Ten minutes pass before another text from Eponine. In the meantime, Enjolras excuses himself from the gathering, to pace anxiously around the empty kitchen. It smells like burnt cookies, but it’s preferable to the tension of his friends around him, pretending that they aren’t all waiting for news of Grantaire.

_He back with you? He never showed up here,_ Eponine finally replies.

It’s more difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

_No_ , is all he can manage in response.

And he shouldn’t be surprised when his phone rings, and it’s Eponine’s shrills voice on the other end.

“ _What in the hell did you do with him? Lose him in the middle of Musichetta’s living room? What in the fuck Enjolras where in the fuck is he? If he’s hurt I am going to fucking murder you with my bare hands!”_

“I’m going out to look for him now.” It’s all Enjolras can say to her, without admitting how he has, indeed, fucked up to a certain degree, and probably deserves at least some of the abuse she’s hurling at him. “Wait at your place in case he shows up.” He ends the call before he ends up wasting any more time.

.....

Enjolras runs through the streets on the way to Eponine’s apartment, hoping that at least Grantaire headed in that direction, and he can find him from that. He’s grateful that for once it isn’t raining, not really for himself, but because the last thing he wants is Grantaire to have passed out in the rain, or get caught in a storm without a roof over his head. The rest of his friends are out in pairs, searching for Grantaire on campus and in the nearby bars and the few fast food places that were open at this hour. Before they all leave--with Joly staying at the house, in case Grantaire comes back--Combeferre tells Enjolras to stop fearing for the worst, that of course Grantaire will be fine, because he’s always fine, in the end.

But Enjolras fears for the worst, anyway. The thought of Grantaire dead in a ditch won’t leave him alone, and there aren’t even any ditches around the fairly urban college town, Enjolras is sure. He checks all of the alleyways and side streets, but no sign of Grantaire.

After forty minutes, his phone rings, and he fumbles for it in the dark.

“ _He’s here! Showed up on my doorstep. Barely conscious,”_ says Eponine.

“Oh thank god.” He’s not sure what else to say. The wave of relief is too great for much else.

“ _He’s got a black eye and a bloody nose, though. WHAT IN THE FUCK, ENJOLRAS?”_

Enjolras hangs up on her for the second time that night, and heads straight to Eponine’s.

.....

At first she refuses to buzz him in, while Enjolras waits on the front steps of her apartment building. He calls her, and she begins to yell again, but a softer voice in the background says something, and she sighs. “ _Fine_. _But I’m kicking him out if I have to_.”

The door unlocks, and Enjolras rushes up the stairs. He’s been sweating for the past hour or so, and after the dash up to the seventh floor, he’s finally out of breath, too. Eponine’s left her apartment door open for him.

Grantaire sits upright, at least, in Eponine’s desk chair, even though his eyes are closed. His left eye is an ugly shade of violet, and there’s blood on his shirt. Eponine clenches a red rag in her fist, presumably from wiping off the blood from underneath Grantaire’s nose.

Enjolras is at a loss for words, and it’s utterly unlike him. 

“He got into a fight with Montparnasse. I guess he wanted someone to hit,” Eponine explains, and glares pointedly at Enjolras.

“If you think I’m in bad shape you oughta see what he looks like,” Grantaire mumbles, and his eyes open. “‘Ello.”

All Enjolras can do is kneel at his side, allow his fingers to trace carefully over the swelling of Grantaire’s eye.

“Ep says nothing’s broke. Just won’t be as pretty as you’re used to seeing me.” Despite the joke, Grantaire looks afraid. His hands shake, and his voice trembles.

“I’m sorry. Sorry I’m such a fuck-up.”

Eponine starts to interrupt. “Grantaire, you’re not--”

But she stops, as she watches Enjolras take her best friend’s hand and press his lips against his forehead. Against it, he whispers, “We’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reads! Your feedback means a lot!


	7. His Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: In Which the Les Amis start to ship it, too.

Enjolras’s friends are not exactly surprised when Grantaire starts showing up to their regular meetings, sitting in the corner, always lingering after for a private word with their leader. He claims it’s for a ride home--carpooling with Enjolras in his electric car, amazing for the environment, you know--but they all know that the two have been fucking each other for at least a month or two now. They try to be subtle about it now, but there was never anything subtle about it in the beginning when each of them thought each time would be the only, the last, and they’d never see one another again. It’s too late to keep it a secret, but they pretend to do so anyway.

More often than not, Grantaire’s friend Eponine tags along. She’s a bit like a mangy cat, in constant disarray and complete with claws, but that’s why they take to her so much, after they finish trying to puzzle out why she wears so many of Grantaire’s clothes. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta think they might understand, although they’ve never thought Enjolras would be the type to like to share.

They like Grantaire though, they do, even though he drinks just a little more than Bahorel and Bahorel is a bear of a man, twice Grantaire’s size. Even his cynicism manages to be amusing, since they all know why he’s really there, and it’s nothing at all to do with their ideals of change.

Jehan’s the first to see it. He has a poet’s soul and it is poetry, after all, that sings from Grantaire’s eyes whenever he looks at Enjolras. Or doesn’t look at him--sometimes all it takes is a thought or two. No one’s quite sure when it happened, but it did, and Enjolras is the only one who remains oblivious. Enjolras busies himself with politics and law and petitions and protests, and sometimes Grantaire’s bed, but rarely ever Grantaire himself. It makes Jehan a little sad, and therefore Courfeyrac by proxy, though Combeferre thinks that maybe it’s for the best that way.

No one notices Eponine stealing catlike glances at Marius. She’s learned to hide her thoughts, hide her self, and everyone is as oblivious as Marius, if such a thing is possible. Musichetta suspects, but that’s only because Musichetta doesn’t know how any girl could put up with all of the men talking at once unless she’s in love with _at least_ one of them. But Musichetta also thinks that Eponine and Grantaire could ever want each other in that way, and of course there’s nothing more wrong than that. 

When he’s alone at his desk, Jehan writes poetry about them, Grantaire and Enjolras. Their not-so-secret smiles, how sometimes they leave together holding hands, Grantaire sketching in the quiet, probably sketching Enjolras, even though Enjolras will always belong to change and revolution first. 

They’re all so busy watching Grantaire, no one notices it when Enjolras starts to love him back.


	8. Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short short that takes place prior to all of the other drabbles. Because I can't stop coming up with headcanons for my brotp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in this one for abuse.

She came to him that night with bruises on her arms, fingerprints swollen in black and violet, too vivid almost to be real. They look one of Grantaire’s paintings, and not the soft, pale, undersides of Eponine’s arms where her bones are fragile and it hurts to touch. She thinks he won’t notice--her parents certainly don’t, or if they do, they don’t care. Gavroche said something at the sight of them, until she shushed him. Gavroche nearly never listens to his older sister, except when she uses that tone of voice and her eyes are hard but breakable, like glass, and then he does listen.

And it goes to show just how Eponine has been avoiding Grantaire, that she thinks he won’t notice, because it’s _Grantaire_ , and he’s a moron, but he’s _her_ moron, and of course he sees them. They’re the second thing he sees, after her plastered-on smile. His mouth goes slack at the sight of them, of her, because she hasn’t been around for almost all of two months. 

Now he suspects he knows why.

He lets her in without a word. Grabs her a beer from the mini-fridge that come standard with dorm rooms.

He’s not sure what to ask her first, and he’s not sure how. They sit together on the end of his bed, the silence between companionable, like it used to be.

At least she’s here, and not there.

Grantaire has watched enough Lifetime movies--only when he’s hungover, and there’s nothing else on, he swears--to know the excuses she’ll give. The cliches, even though his Eponine is anything but. She’s his tigress, and he knows she isn’t broken yet. But he says anyway

“ _I_ love you.”

Eponine nods, and this time her smile is real, even if it’s small. It’s a start.

“Can we just get really, really hammered and play Xbox or something?” she asks.

Grantaire is happy to oblige her.

Later that night, when Eponine is safe and asleep in his bed, and not crying, and hopefully having nice dreams, for once, Grantaire is not quite yet blackout drunk. He goes to the bar where Montparnasse slums around on Friday nights. He’s never considered himself much of a fighter but he breaks a few of Montparnasse’s ribs, anyway, and it’ll cost over a grand if the bastard ever wants his pretty little nose to sit straight again.

Eponine only pretends to be mad at him, the next day, when she reads the furious texts from Montparnasse. With Grantaire at her side, she feels safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments and commenters are loved.


	9. Worth Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anon on tumblr: for Grantaire to meet Enjolras's parents and feel terrible about himself

Grantaire buries his head in Eponine’s pillow and groans. Loudly.

“Stop that, you sound like a dying sea lion,” she tells him, and perches on the bed beside him. “I’m assuming it didn’t go well?”

He makes another dying sea lion noise in response. 

“It cannot have been _that_ bad.”

He turns his head to the side so he can speak. “They hate me.”

“Why? Weren’t you on your best behavior?” Eponine rubs his back, trying to soothe him.

“Not even the best behavior in the world can make up for the fact that I’ve apparently seduced their son into committing sodomy. Oh, and I study art, which is worthless. And the Grantaire family name isn’t nearly prestigious enough for the almighty Mr. and Mrs. Enjolras.” He sighs, wipes at his eyes. “I want to _die_.”

“You hush. I bet no one is good enough for these people, if you aren’t.”

Grantaire rolls over onto his back to glare at her, and Eponine rests her hand on his chest. “Stop acting as if I’m some sort of prize. The worst part is that they’re right, Ep, and I know it. Enjolras pretends not to know it, but he does.”

“Where is Enjolras, anyway?”

“Probably still at the restaurant.”

“You _left_? In the middle of dinner?” Eponine raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth in a look of horror.

Grantaire sits up, presses his forehead against Eponine’s shoulder. She feels his lips move against her sweater. “Pretended I got a call from you and I had to go. Emergency.” He sighs again, heavier than the first. “I think Enjolras suspected, though.”

“Obviously. You’re the worst liar.” She pats him on the head, fondly.

He pulls Eponine tight against him. “I need a fucking drink.”

She hugs him back. “Maybe later. Probably not a good idea for you to be wasted when your boyfriend gets back.”

“Just a little one?”

“Nope.” Eponine releases him, crosses her arms. “So tell me more about what happened.”

He shrugs, and even though he looks down at the bedspread--a very crooked quilt in pink stripes and green plaid that Eponine made in high school--she can see how red his eyes are. It was probably a long, cold walk to her apartment, but he was probably crying, too.

“There’s nothing to talk about. They spoke to me like I was three years old. Like because I don’t come from old, snobby money, I must be illiterate. God, and they kept bothering me about being an art major. Why hasn’t Enjolras met any nice girls in his political science classes, they ask him.” His voice grows shrill. “I am sitting, right fucking _there_ , and they offer to set him up on a date with some rich guy’s daughter, and she’s pre-law, so ‘she’s definitely going places.’” He does the last bit in a high falsetto, which Eponine assumes is meant to be an impersonation of Mrs. Enjolras. “‘I’m sure we can find you a nice boy, too, if you insist on keeping up this little gay phase,” he finishes, lets out a little scream of frustration, and falls back to the bed.

“Of course they’re right, though, aren’t they? Maybe not about Enjolras needing to date girls, but about everything else. Can you imagine if they knew how much I drink on a daily basis?”

Eponine tries to interrupt. “You’ve been cutting back some, though, since--”

“He deserves someone so much _better_ than me,” Grantaire spits. Then his voice fades from wrathful to something else entirely, something worse by far. “I only can’t believe it took a conversation with those assholes to make me see it.”

And Eponine knows he’s being ridiculous, of course, but he sounds so lost that she can’t help but pity him.

“I’m a fucking wreck, Ep. Why did I think finally being with him would change any of that?”

.....

An hour passes. Then two more. Dinner should be over, and Grantaire’s phone never buzzes or rings, and there’s no knock at Eponine’s door.

“He’s realized it, too,” Grantaire concludes.

Eponine doesn’t know what to think. She sends Enjolras a quick text, when Grantaire is too busy pulling his own hair in frustration and, she suspects, a sense of grief, to notice.

_Hes here, if youre looking for him._

Enjolras responds almost instantly, as if he was staring at his phone, waiting.

_Grantaire left, not me_.

There much more to it than that, but Enjolras nearly never opens up to anyone--he’s as closed off in his feelings as Grantaire is open--and certainly never to Eponine.

“You should go find him,” she says to Grantaire. “You know he’s always chasing after you. Probably your turn, by now.”

“I know.” He sits up again, and this time even gets his feet on the floor. It’s progress, if nothing else. His buries his head in his hands, begins to massage his temples with his index fingers. “God I wish I could have a drink right now.”

“If Enjolras somehow magically decides that his parents are right about you, then I will gladly give you all of the booze in my apartment.”

It’s a pathetic sort of motivation, and Grantaire feels pathetic for allowing it to persuade him. He wants to do nothing but lie in Eponine’s bed for the next six weeks, but he knows he doesn’t want to do it sober.

“You’ve resigned yourself to it being over with him anyway, haven’t you? All that ‘he deserves better’ talk? Might as well get it over with. Come on, I’ll give you a ride,” Eponine continues, trying to goad him into action.

She stands in front of him, fists on her hips, but she falters just a little when Grantaire looks up at her with watery blue eyes. 

“I’m scared,” is all he says.

.....

Enjolras knows Grantaire is probably hiding out at Eponine’s, and that’s nothing new. Eponine’s text merely confirms it. But he doesn’t want to talk to Eponine right now and he’s not sure if he wants to talk to Grantaire. Not until Grantaire wants to talk to him.

He can’t stand being alone with his thoughts, not when they’re like this, so he opens his laptop and scans the news, signs some online petitions, and starts to put together a Facebook event for an upcoming protest on-campus. This, Enjolras can handle. But not Grantaire, Grantaire who fled from dinner, probably so no one would see him crying. Enjolras isn’t sure if he minds, if he has a right to mind--after all, they are Enjolras’s shitty capitalist parents who he himself can’t even stand, and subjecting Grantaire to them might’ve been unfair. 

There’s a soft knock at his door--Grantaire never knocks anymore--but it opens before Enjolras can answer it. And it’s Grantaire who never knocks, of course it’s Grantaire, who else would it be conveniently showing up at the moment?

He looks petrified; his face is pale and his eyes are rimmed with red. His hands are shaking, and Enjolras knows Grantaire well enough after all these months to know what he looks when he’s sober. It’s shocking, really, that Grantaire of all people would manage sobriety after all the abuse that had been hurled at him a few hours before.

He lingers in the doorway.

“You left,” Enjolras says, and his voice is flat, unyielding.

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire doesn’t look at him, stares down at his own feet, instead. “I couldn’t stay.” He laughs, then, and it’s full of loathing. But Enjolras knows Grantaire well enough to know that when Grantaire laughs like that, his derision is reserved only for himself. Enjolras might get smirks and cynicism thrown his way, but never as harsh as what Grantaire leaves for himself. “Your parents are right about me, you know. Worthless, and all that.”

“I don’t blame you for leaving,” Enjolras says, ignoring Grantaire’s last statement. “Though I do wish you had stayed.”

“I know my faults pretty well, actually. I didn’t need to hear them repeated back to me.”

“Close the door.”

“What?” Grantaire startles enough to meet Enjolras’s gaze.

“Come inside. I’m not going to kick you out.” Enjolras closes his laptop, rests his chin in his hands comfortably to watch Grantaire.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be--” Grantaire begins, and Enjolas can tell by the look of blatant panic on his face that whatever he has to say will not be anything Enjolras want to hear.

“I couldn’t give a fuck about what my parents say about you. I didn’t care about them meeting you, or you meeting them. I wish you stayed because I needed you there. To help me put up with them.” It’s a difficult admission, for Enjolras, and now he’s the one not looking at Grantaire. He traces patterns on the tabletop with his fingertips. “Because you’re worth something to me,” he murmurs.

Grantaire didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse, but he does, _because Enjolras needed him_ and he had failed. He wants to cry again, and another sob starts to constrict his throat.

“Is Eponine waiting out in the car?” Enjolras asks.

“What? Yeah.” 

“Might as well invite her up, then. Want to watch a movie or something? I can do homework later,” Enjolras says, and smiles.

Grantaire doesn’t know quite how this happened, but he finds himself smiling back.


	10. Best Friend by Extension

“I fucking hate her.”

They’re on their way back from the official “Meet Marius’s New Girlfriend” dinner, and Enjolras should have expected something like this to happen.

He peers in his rearview mirror, at his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s best friend in the backseat. He feels a little too much like a chauffeur whenever this happens, but he knows that sometimes it’s simply for the greater good, and this is one of those times.

Grantaire slings his arm around Eponine’s shoulders, and Enjolras is surprised she hasn’t started crying yet. Instead she simply appears sullen, her eyes downcast and her mouth in a tight line to match the clench of her jaw.

“She’s a real bitch,” Grantaire continues. He catches Enjolras glancing at them in the rearview mirror, and gives him a meaningful glare.

Enjolras coughs, then adds, “Yeah. She’s awful. A real bitch.” And it’s a poor attempt to imitate Grantaire, and Enjolras’s smile is guilty. Grantaire just rolls his eyes and continues.

“She’s too blonde. There’s no way it’s natural, and even if it is it looks fake, and that’s what really matters.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows--he knows how much Grantaire can never seem to keep his hands out of _his_ blond hair as he whispers Apollo in his ear--but stays silent, because he knows the comments aren’t exactly meant for his sake.

“She looks like a stereotypical bimbo. Never thought that would be Marius’s type. Probably head cheerleader all through high school, daddy buying her all sorts of fancy clothes. And god, does she have anything to say that isn’t completely generic? Poor Marius, having to put up with that. She’s not even all that attractive, really. Too conventionally pretty. Maybe if her face was halfway _interesting_ \--”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, GRANTAIRE!” Eponine bursts out, finally, and even Enjolras loses his composure, and his car swerves to the right and he has to slam on the brakes so that he doesn’t run them all off of the road entirely. “COSETTE IS _FUCKING_ _FLAWLESS,_ SO STOP PRETENDING OTHERWISE!” She sighs and slumps her head against the window. And then, quietly, “Even _I_ can’t _not_ like her.”

Grantaire pulls her closer, and she moves to lean against him instead of the window. Her head fits into the curve of his neck as he takes her hands. “She has nothing on you, Ep. Trust me, Marius is a moron.”

“No,” Eponine says. “She’s lovely. And nice. If she wasn’t so damn _nice_ this would actually be easier. You see she invited me over for a girls night? Said I could even bring your sorry ass, if it made me more comfortable.”

He sticks his tongue out in distaste. “She’s too nice, clearly. Does she have any other personality besides generic nice girl? Nope.”

Eponine snorts. “Then you didn’t hear her promise to out drink you and Courfeyrac under the table the next time we’re at the Musain.” She leans forward suddenly. “What do you think, Enjolras?”

He’s at a loss for words, for once, because he doesn’t want to hurt her with any more truths--like about how much he enjoyed his brief conversation with Cosette about government assistance programs, and how she’s as intelligent as she is pretty--but he doesn’t want to insult Eponine with more lies. Even though he’ll never know her as well as Grantaire does, he knows she’s better than that.

“I was under the impression that you two grew up together?” It’s not a question, but Enjolras phrases it that way in order to avoid answering Eponine’s query. 

Eponine slinks back into her seat, and crosses her arms in a huff. “My parents fostered her for a year or so before she got adopted out of the blue. They wanted the extra money.” It’s all Eponine offers, and Enjolras doesn’t pry further. She doesn’t like to talk about her childhood, and Enjolras is used to that--Grantaire never discusses his childhood either, and Enjolras always pretends that’s alright, so he does the same now, with Eponine. 

She tries to bury herself into Grantaire’s side and Enjolras hears her mumble, “I can see why he loves her, though, so you can stop pretending not to like her.”

“Do you want me to hate Marius instead, then? I can do that. Remember that time you stopped me from killing him?”

She forces a laugh that even the emotionally-oblivious Enjolras can tell is false, and shakes her head. “No. They make each other happy, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” She says it in a small voice, full of heartache. Enjolras pities her and stays silent, because he knows that pity is the last thing she wants.

“Do you want to stay over with us tonight?” Grantaire asks, ignoring the single eyebrow that Enjolras raises at him in the mirror. It’s Enjolras’s apartment, after all, even though Grantaire has taken up semi-permanent residence there. “We can eat ice cream and talk about how much we hate Cosette.”

She punches him in the shoulder. “Shut up. I told you, even _I_ like her, so you just stop. I could use a proper friend-who-is-a-girl, anyway.”

Grantaire opens his eyes and mouth wide in mock shock and offense, and Eponine punches him again. This time she’s smiling. Her eyes are sad, but the smile seems genuine enough.

“So I’m guessing we need to stop by the grocery store for ice cream?” Enjolras asks. He and Eponine aren’t close, and probably never will be, but a small part of him loves and admires her, too. Grantaire and Eponine have managed to hurt each other less in twenty years than Grantaire and Enjolras have in a tenth of that time. Enjolras knows their relationship isn’t perfect, but he’s grateful for Eponine’s example--she can love Grantaire when Grantaire can’t love himself, and even when it’s difficult for Enjolras to.

“And the liquor store,” Eponine says, and Enjolras listens as she and Grantaire fall into giggles at the sight of his affronted glare in the rearview mirror.


End file.
